


our days and nights are perfumed with obsession

by lantur



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Car Sex, Character Study, F/M, Pining, Pre-Canon, Slow Burn, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:15:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28368975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lantur/pseuds/lantur
Summary: Ishval affects Roy in unexpected ways. Riza helps him heal.[A Roy character study and companion fic todelicate.]
Relationships: Riza Hawkeye/Roy Mustang
Comments: 71
Kudos: 114





	our days and nights are perfumed with obsession

**Author's Note:**

> You do not have to be following _delicate_ to read this fic, but it might inform your understanding of Roy in _delicate._

The Central City Science Museum opens its archival library to the public on September 15, 1901, two weeks before Roy Mustang’s sixteenth birthday. His Aunt Chris buys him a six-month admittance pass as a birthday gift. She has always been generous with these gifts -  _ I only have one nephew, anyway,  _ she says every year, as she hands him the knife to slice his snowflake cake. (Another birthday tradition, ordered from the Xingese bakery in the Market District.) 

Chris gifted Roy with telescopes and microscopes when he was a boy, along with children’s books with brightly colored, intricate illustrations of cells and planets.  _ I think your parents would have wanted you to have things like this,  _ she said, a little gruffly.  _ They loved science.  _

Newly five-year-old Roy sat up late with his books, and traced the illustrations with his fingers.  _ Telomeres,  _ he whispered to himself, relishing the word.  _ Ribosomes. Mitochondria. _

The illustrations of planets fascinated him. He was enthralled with other planets’ swirls of brilliant colors. They were strawberry ice-cream pink, sky blue, bruise-purple, the bright orange of a tangerine.  _ Why do they look like that?  _ Roy asked his stuffed tiger Nuan, his last keepsake from Mother. Further reading told him that different planets had different colors because they were made from different materials, both on the ground and in the atmosphere. 

Learning about the atmosphere was a gateway to learning about chemistry and the elements. Realizing that everything was made up of atoms and cells and elements changed his life. Roy ran his hands over tables, sat in chairs, stomped on the ground just to feel the cement or asphalt or hard-packed earth underneath his feet, picked up all manner of rocks to examine them, and tugged up blades of grass. He marveled that all of these different things, things that looked different and felt different, were made up of atoms and cells and elements. 

Roy got into some trouble in primary school, for scaring the other children in his class by telling them that their hair and even their fingernails and eyeballs were made of millions and billions of atoms and cells. He got picked on for looking at things too intently, or bending close or lying flat on the ground to study them. None of this bothered Roy much. 

Chris kept up with his interests. Her birthday gifts to Roy reflected that, as he grew. The basic telescopes, microscopes, and rudimentary chemistry sets grew larger and more elaborate along with him. Over the course of five years, Roy’s alchemy books and experimentation materials shifted from beginners’ kits to expert-level equipment and texts. The books went from books that could be picked up at any decent bookstore in Central City, to volumes that had to be special-ordered from universities around Amestris.

“I can’t keep up with you anymore, kid.” Chris handed him the six-month admittance pass to the archival library at the science museum. “I know you’re not going to be able to bring any of these books home with you, but this will have to do.”

Roy took the pass reverently, tucking it into his wallet. “Thank you, Chris. This is perfect.”

Roy finishes school the following day and heads straight to the science museum. (He has no friends to socialize with after school, and no girlfriend, despite how the ladies who work at the bar tease him. His reputation among his peers as odd and overly intense hasn’t subsided over the years.) 

The archival library isn’t too busy, which is baffling to him. Roy spends several minutes gaping in awe at the collections, and close to an hour wandering the shelves and pulling book after book into his arms, until he’s almost staggering under the weight of the heavy volumes. He finds an empty table by the window and claims it, spreading out his collection. It covers almost the entirety of the table space, and he surveys it, satisfied. Roy pulls out his journal to take notes. He can’t decide which book to start reading, so he rotates between four at a time. 

He doesn’t notice the girl sitting at the next table, with a stack of her own books by her side, and a notebook open in front of her. He doesn’t notice the glances she throws his way every so often for the first hour, or the impatient sighs she huffs out after the second hour passes.

“Excuse me,” the girl says, two and a half hours after he sits down. 

Roy is so startled he jumps in his seat, and nearly shrieks in shock. He whirls around to see the girl at the other table staring at him, apparently perturbed by his reaction. “Yes?” he croaks, straightening the tie of his school uniform, trying to recover his composure. 

“You’ve had Petrucci’s book with you for two and a half hours, and it looks like you’re barely reading it.” The girl pushes a lock of her shoulder-length brown hair behind her ear. “Can I take it for an hour? I need it for a school project.”

“Oh. I’m sorry, I just wanted to use Petrucci’s theories as a comparison to some of my own ideas.” Roy picks up the book and takes it to her table. Her collection of books rivals his, and he scans them, his interest piqued. “Fischer, Bayer, and Ostwald? Are you studying the ionic equilibrium acids and bases theory?”

“Yes.” The girl studies him. She looks to be about his age. “I’m also trying to justify the need for a bonding theory beyond the Lewis theory.”

“That’s pretty nice. None of my assignments at school are that fun. Those were both independent study topics for me.” Roy goes to one of Central’s top secondary schools. He still finds the curriculum to be laughably easy. He is on track to graduate early this December, and begin an alchemy apprenticeship under Berthold Hawkeye. 

The girl eyes his uniform, noting the dark blue tie and the crest on the chest pocket. “I’m surprised. That’s a De Magistris uniform, right?” 

“Yeah.” Her tie is deep scarlet, but he doesn’t recognize the affiliation of the color. “Where do you study?”

“The Hirsch Petrone Academy for Science,” the girl replies, with no small amount of pride.

Roy practically melts with envy. The Academy for Science had been the secondary school of his dreams, but the waitlist had been much too long. “What’s it like? Is it true that Lehmann’s on your staff?”

The girl nods. “She teaches my advanced chemistry study.”

Roy knows that he should probably get back to his own table and let this girl resume her schoolwork, but he stays where he is, overwhelmed by his own curiosity. “Has she discussed her research on radioactivity?”

“I’ll let you read my notes from her last lecture, if you talk to me a bit about the ionic equilibrium acids and bases theory.” 

“Okay,” Roy says, a little breathless at the prospect of access to those notes. “That sounds great.”

The girl pulls out a chair for him, and he sits beside her. “Thanks.” He holds out his hand for her to shake. “I’m Roy, by the way.”

“I’m Ivy.” The girl shakes his hand. Her hand is soft, but her grip is firm. 

They end up staying at the library until half past eight, studying side-by-side. Ivy mentions that she’s hungry, once she’s finished writing her paper. Roy realizes that he is too, but he hadn’t even noticed until she brought it up. There’s a good sandwich place nearby, and he offers to take her there for dinner. 

They linger over their sandwiches, fries, and malted milkshakes, talking about science, until the clock in the diner strikes ten. Ivy shudders, pulling on her coat. “My parents are going to kill me for being out so late.” 

“Sorry for keeping you.” Roy shoves his hands in his pockets, abashed. Chris doesn’t care about when he gets back to the bar, and he forgets that other parents are different. “I’ll walk you home.”

“No, it was fun.” Ivy gives him a tentative smile. “I’ll be back at the library tomorrow after school.”

“I’ll be there, too.” 

Roy walks her home, because it’s ten at night and it’s the decent thing to do. He gets back to the bar at eleven. He should be getting to sleep, but he settles himself in bed with one of his alchemy texts, just for some light reading to unwind. He reflects that today had been a very nice day.

-

Roy spends every evening and weekend with Ivy, at the library and then out for dinner or lunch, for a month. He doesn’t think anything of it until his aunt informs him that he has a girlfriend. The suggestion flusters him so much that he chokes on his egg cream.

“I’m not--” Roy splutters, thankful that none of the ladies are here for work yet, and nobody witnessed this except Chris. “Ivy and I are friends.”

“Ask her about it.” Chris takes a sip of her wine. “I think she’ll surprise you with her answer.”

Roy fumbles with his napkin as he mops up the bit of egg cream he spilled on the table. “Fine. I will.”

“Would it change your mind?” Chris asks, after a few moments. “About leaving for your apprenticeship at the end of the year? Or maybe finding an alchemy teacher closer to Central?” 

Roy doesn’t hesitate. “No.” Chris looks at him askance at the immediacy of his answer, and he shrugs. “I know what matters most to me.”

Chris turns the page of her newspaper. “You know, you can be a little cold sometimes, Roy-boy.”

-

Later that night, over slices of warm apple pie at Tony’s Diner, Roy clears his throat and says, “My aunt referred to you as my girlfriend today.”

Ivy cuts a bite off her pie and does not make eye contact with him. “That’s what my parents call you. My boyfriend, not my girlfriend.”

“Are you?” Roy asks. The question is short and blunt. Even though he has never asked a girl a question like this before, he isn’t overly nervous about asking, or about her response. He thought about it on the entire walk to the library earlier today, and determined that he would be equally okay if Ivy said  _ no,  _ or if she said  _ yes.  _

He likes spending time with her very much, and she is pretty. He admires the way her eyes sparkle and the way she smiles when she’s talking about something she’s passionate about. But the last thing on Roy’s mind before he goes to sleep each night, and the first thing on his mind when he wakes, is alchemy and his own future accomplishments in the field. Not Ivy.

Ivy taps her index finger against the table twice, something she does when she’s deep in thought. “I think that would be nice,” she admits.

“I think so too.” Roy hesitates, and then places his hand over hers. “I’m still going to start my alchemy apprenticeship in Cecil in December.”

“I figured. If I got a great chemistry apprenticeship, no matter where it was, I wouldn’t turn it down for anyone.”

Roy smiles. “I’m glad you understand.”

“I do.” Ivy curls her fingers around his. “I think we can still have fun until you leave.”

-

Ivy’s parents have a weekly bridge night with a few other couples that they have been friends with since their own secondary school days. They stay out until eleven at night, or later. Ivy has no siblings, so the two of them have the house to themselves.

The first time she invites Roy over to experiment, they quite literally run an experiment with oxygen and fire in the backyard, and then exchange celebratory kisses on the living room sofa. The second time, events unfold differently. They lie almost nose-to-nose in Ivy’s bed, and Roy smooths his fingers through her hair, as she presses her hand against his cheekbone. 

“Was that successful?” he asks. His heart beats fast in his chest. He hadn’t expected anything that happened tonight, but it was nice. (One of the best experiments, one of the best learning experiences, Roy has ever had. It is something that he has never studied in a book before, and something that he would love to do again.) 

Ivy laughs. “It was.” 

-

It becomes a weekly routine, until Roy graduates from secondary school two years early and packs his bags for his departure to Cecil. He takes Ivy out for a nice dinner date at Spoon and Stable downtown, and then they go for a walk along the river, arm-in-arm. 

“I’m leaving tomorrow,” he says. “For Cecil.”

“I know.” Ivy draws her coat closer around herself. It is fashionable, but not thick enough, and Roy removes his own coat and offers it to her. She takes it gratefully. “Would you like me to see you off at the station?”

Roy shakes his head. “That’s all right. My train leaves at six in the morning, and you’d be late for school.”

They walk in silence for a little while. Ivy’s grip tightens a little on his arm. “Do you want me to wait for you? Or - should we write letters, or something?”

Roy hadn’t expected the question. He stammers a little on his response. “It’ll be two years, and I don’t know how often I’ll come back to Central during that time. I plan to enlist in the State Military Academy once I’m finished with my apprenticeship, too.” 

“Oh.” Ivy blinks a few times. “All right.”

Roy feels a little off balance, like he had done something wrong, but he isn’t sure what. “We can write to each other,” he says. 

They come to a stop, and Ivy kisses him on the cheek. “Okay.” She falters, for just a moment. “I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you too.” Roy will miss having her to talk to, because he’s never met someone else as passionate about science as she is, even though she isn’t an alchemist. He will miss having her to kiss, and do more than kiss.

Roy walks Ivy home. Then he walks back to the bar, alone, unable to shake the pricking of guilt inside him. The truth is, his excitement to begin his apprenticeship under a master alchemist, to further his own knowledge, far surpasses any sorrow or regret he feels at leaving Ivy behind, or even Chris. 

He remembers what Chris said to him, once.  _ You can be a little cold sometimes, Roy-boy. _

-

Berthold Hawkeye teaches Roy about alchemy beyond anything he has ever read in any advanced text, and about duality.

Part of Roy admires Master Hawkeye to the point of near worship. He is fiercely, frighteningly intelligent. His expertise far exceeds that of Roy’s old alchemy tutors back in Central. His intellect likely rivals that of the best professors at Central’s universities. He is driven and hardworking, principled and outspoken, and overall the closest thing to a male role model that Roy has ever encountered. 

But Roy also sees how Master Hawkeye treats his twelve-year-old daughter. He is so consumed by his work that he doesn’t acknowledge Riza at all. He barely speaks to her. Nor does he lift a finger to help her with the upkeep of Hawkeye Manor. Riza does everything alone, in silence. The cooking, the trips to the market, the maintenance of the grounds, the cleaning, the laundry. She is more like a maid, a household drudge, than the daughter of the house. 

It is more than a little shocking and uncomfortable to witness. Roy has never seen or heard of anything like this before. He has always helped out at the bar, wiping tables down, or doing dishes in the kitchen, but Chris never expected him to perform this level of work. 

_ Maybe things are different, in the country,  _ Roy thinks to himself, but he suspects it isn’t. He knows it isn’t right. But it’s difficult to reconcile the neglectful father who barely speaks to his daughter, with the brilliant alchemist and teacher that Roy wants to emulate. 

Roy does what he can. He washes the dishes and cleans up the kitchen every night. He always sits with Riza to eat at the kitchen table, though Master Hawkeye invites him to take dinner in the study. Roy always thanks her for dinner, and compliments her on her cooking, and Riza gives him small, shy smiles in return. He finds her when she’s working on household chores on the weekends, trying to tame the manor grounds into submission, or scrubbing the windows, the toilets and bathtubs, or dusting and sweeping and mopping. He uses alchemy to help her with her tasks, finishing them in the smallest fraction of the time it would have taken her. 

It doesn’t take long before Roy realizes that Riza quietly adores him. If he says that he particularly likes something she has cooked, she takes care to make it again within the next couple of weeks. He casually mentions he likes plum tea, and she buys it from the market and brings him a cup when he’s up late studying.

Riza doesn’t seem to have friends to spend time with, or a boyfriend, as she grows from twelve to thirteen to fourteen. When she’s not doing work around Hawkeye Manor, she is immersed in novels or her schoolbooks. Roy hopes that she meets someone kind and gentle at school. Someone who will be a companion to her, to offer her warmth and comfort, and maybe, when they’re older, offer her a way out of this cold, unhappy home. 

-

Roy and Ivy exchange monthly letters, and they see one another when Roy makes occasional visits to Central to see Chris. They rekindle things when he returns to Central full-time to enlist in the State Military Academy. Ivy studies nanochemistry at Central City University. Between the academic demands of her classes, her laboratory work, and the rigorous curriculum of the military academy, they aren’t able to see each other too often. Three or four times a month for an evening or two, at most.

“Out with your girlfriend?” Hughes asks, when Roy returns to their dorm room just before curfew. Hughes is sitting on his bed, hunched over his military history textbook. The rest of their roommates are out, probably in the library, at the gym, practicing at the range, or with their own girlfriends or boyfriends. 

“Yeah.” Roy removes his scarf, and grimaces at the mark Ivy left on his neck. That better fade by their inspection on Monday morning, when he has to be back in uniform and can’t hide it with civilian clothes. Otherwise he’s never going to hear the end of it from the drill sergeant - or his fellow cadets. 

“So…” Hughes draws out the word. “Are you going to marry her after we graduate? I think Gracia would be on board with a double wedding. If we pool our money, we’d be able to get a much nicer venue than either of us could afford on our own. Our ladies would be so pleased with us!” 

Roy stares at him, dumbfounded. “Are you completely insane?”

“What?” Hughes pouts. “Was that for the double wedding idea? Or asking if you were going to marry Ivy?”

“Both.” Roy smooths his hair down in the mirror, cursing the cadet dress code regulations for the requirement to keep it short. He prefers it long. “You’re an idiot.”

“I don’t think either of them were unreasonable questions.” Hughes shuts his book, no longer making a pretense of studying. 

“I’m not marrying Ivy after graduation. That’s only a few months away.” Roy is twenty, and maybe the thought of marriage shouldn’t be as bizarre as the prospect of breathing underwater, but it is. “And you think you’re marrying Gracia after graduation, you might be mistaken. I bet both of us are deploying to the front within a month after we graduate.”

Hughes flops down onto his back, heaving a dismayed sigh as he stares at the ceiling. “You’re probably right. Being away from Gracia for God knows how long is going to kill me.” 

“You’ll survive.” Roy settles down onto his own bunk, directly beneath Hughes. “In case we’re not deployed to the same region, and I’m not around to keep an eye on you, you need to remember to keep your head in the game. Missing Gracia isn’t going to kill you, but a bullet to the head will.”

“You’re always so cheerful, Roy,” Hughes grumbles. They are silent for a while, absorbed in their own thoughts, before he speaks again. “Aren’t you dreading leaving Ivy again? I just - I hate the thought of being away from Gracia. I’ve never even been in a different city from her, let alone half the country away.”

Roy shrugs. “I’m more concerned about what we’ll face in Ishval, to be honest.” 

“That’s a little cold.” The bunk bed squeaks, and Hughes peers down at him from above. “Don’t you love her?”

“I like her,” Roy replies, after a few moments. “Very much.” 

(It’s something that has concerned him, vaguely, for some time. That he doesn’t feel for Ivy what Hughes feels for Gracia. He enjoys spending time with Ivy. Talking to her, and hearing what is going on in her life, and taking her out to dinner and the theatre and museums. And doing things besides talking. But, aside from one obvious consideration, he feels the same for Ivy that he does for Hughes, and Roy doesn’t want to marry Hughes. ) 

Hughes grimaces. “Haven’t you two been together for like, four years?”

“On and off, yeah.”

“Roy Mustang,” Hughes pronounces, rather judgmentally. “You are a  _ dog. _ ” 

Roy throws a pillow at his face.

-

Ivy asks him, again, if he wants her to wait for him while he’s deployed to Ishval. They’re in bed together, which is not the setting Roy would have chosen to have this conversation. 

“I don’t know how long I’ll be away.” Roy traces his thumb along the line of her bare shoulder, as if the tender gesture will soften the hard, empty space where a proposal should lie. “It could be years.”

Ivy waits for him to say anything more. When he remains silent, she nods. “Okay.”

“I’ll call you,” Roy says. “When I get back. If you’re still here, finishing up your studies - if you’re not seeing anyone…”

It occurs to him, as he walks back to the academy, that part of him hopes Ivy isn’t still in Central when he returns. Or that she will be seeing someone. A nice chemistry student who can love her the way she deserves. Who might have turned down an alchemy apprenticeship for her, or made the effort to visit a few more times a year, at least, or write more regularly. Who won’t think twice before proposing to her. Who says  _ I love you, Ivy,  _ and actually means it, with all of his heart.

Roy puts his hands in the pockets of his coat. 

_ That’s a little cold, Roy. _

He walks on. 

-

The next day, he boards a train to Cecil to pay a visit to his former alchemy teacher. 

-

Riza shows him the secrets of Flame Alchemy, inscribed on the skin of her back. 

At first, Roy is struck by the intricate, complex beauty of the encoding. It is the brand of genius that only Master Hawkeye could have created. “This is…” He steps closer, coming to stand right behind her. “The Flame Alchemy array?”

Riza bows her head in assent.

“Incredible.” Overcome by awe, Roy reaches out to brush his fingers against the tiny letters just below the nape of her neck. 

Riza almost jumps out of her skin at the touch. The realization crashes into him then, in one dreadful moment. These beautiful notes are encoded onto a girl’s back. Master Hawkeye used his sixteen-year-old daughter’s skin as a canvas. She’s huddled in front of him, clutching her blazer to her chest to cover herself. 

Roy steps back hastily, mortified at his mistake. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.” He has no business touching Riza at all, especially in her current state of undress.

“It’s all right.” Riza glances back at him over her shoulder. Despite her earlier fright, there’s still such trust in her eyes.

She allows him to examine her back in order to decode the array. Roy gives her his coat to lie on, facedown on the sofa in the library, to keep her warm and offer more coverage than her blazer. He pulls up a chair next to her, his journal and a pen tucked under one arm. He has to lean close to study, and Roy struggles with the strangeness of it for the first minute. The only time he’s been in a position like this was with Ivy, in a very different context. Pressing kisses to her skin, over her shoulder blades, down her spine, his hands sliding underneath her to cup her breasts.

Later, Roy fixes Riza a cup of tea and some toast spread with strawberry preserves. A small part of his mind that isn’t immersed in thoughts of Flame Alchemy turns to mingled pity and concern for Riza. She has an incredibly dangerous piece of scientific knowledge, one of the three most dangerous pieces of knowledge he can imagine, inked onto her skin. She’ll have to be extraordinarily careful about who she dates. She should avoid alchemists, as well as regular scientists. It isn’t his place to warn Riza, but she is so trusting, so responsive to even the smallest kindnesses, that he does worry. A girl like her could be easily exploited for the secret she carries. 

Roy stirs a bit of honey into Riza’s tea. Faint anger stirs within him, too, at how Master Hawkeye has made it difficult for Riza to have a normal life. 

\- 

Roy uses his newfound knowledge of Flame Alchemy to become the youngest-ever State Alchemist in the history of Amestris. He is deployed to Ishval one month after he earns his certification. 

-

Roy, the Roy he was for twenty years (the boy and young man who loved science, the soldier with the idealistic belief that he and his fellow soldiers existed to protect Amestrian civilians) dies in Ishval. He is immolated in his own flames the first time he snaps his fingers and an entire city block explodes in flame, blowing the bodies of a hundred innocent Ishvalans to bits. 

He emerges from the ashes with an entirely different sense of what matters. With new goals and ambitions and purpose. That keeps him going. It keeps him from putting a bullet in his head, or better yet, burning himself alive.

_ Not yet,  _ Roy tells himself, gritting his teeth.  _ Not yet. One day, I’ll be held accountable for the blood on my hands. But not yet. _

That thought keeps him going, too. 

He returns to Central City after the war ends as the Hero of Ishval, a twenty-three-year-old Lieutenant Colonel. The youngest Lieutenant Colonel in Amestrian history. 

Roy has one month of leave before he is due to report for duty at East City Command, serving under Lieutenant General Bernard Grumman. He spends the first three weeks in his childhood bedroom in Chris’s bar. He eats little and sleeps less, cries intermittently, and curses himself and every decision he has made. He alternates between nausea and near-crippling headaches. 

Self-loathing leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, as does the liquor he drinks at night. Roy fills his journals with plans, alternating between fevered scribbling and orderly notes depending on his state of mind. 

Chris worries about him, in her way. She suggests that he give Ivy a call; that seeing her might make him feel better. Roy brushes off the suggestion. The only person he is able to talk to is Hughes, who visits every couple of days. Gracia stops by once weekly, on her way to work. He can barely speak to her, but she gives him a hug and an enormous container full of homemade chicken soup. Despite how he teased Hughes for being utterly smitten back in their academy days, Roy can see why his best friend loves Gracia. She is gentle and compassionate.

Hughes and Chris spend evenings at the bar talking, without him, about him. Both of them express their reservations about him moving to East City on his own. “I don’t like the thought of you all alone there.” Hughes says it first, his brows drawing together. Chris echoes the sentiment the following evening.

“Don’t worry. I won’t kill myself. I have plans I need to attend to.” Roy tells both of them, before he takes a drink of his liquor. That is the only thing that brings him a measure of comfort and solace, these days. 

Every thought he has about his goals for the future of Amestris is underwritten with one number. Nine hundred thousand. Ishval had been home to nine hundred thousand souls. Thousands escaped the region over the course of the conflict, before Order 3066 was handed down and even after, but he has no idea how many survivors remain. Certainly just a fraction of the nine hundred thousand who lived there previously. 

He can work to become the Fuhrer-President of Amestris. He can reform the country. He can ensure that Ishval is rebuilt. He can bring himself and the other Amestrian soldiers involved in the war to justice. None of that will ever restore those nine hundred thousand souls.

So even thoughts of his future plans are a cold comfort. Every thought Roy has about science, his old love, his old comfort, is obscured by the particular, deadly science of Flame Alchemy.  _ If only I had let my passion for science be enough. If only I hadn’t turned to alchemy. If only I had been content with performing regular alchemy. If only I hadn’t become fixated on learning Flame Alchemy.  _

Every thought he has of touching Ivy - his old comfort, if not love - is masked by memories of lifting his hand to  _ snap  _ and rain destruction on the lives of innocents. He can’t imagine himself touching her. He can’t imagine himself touching anyone. 

Roy thinks only of his future plans, as simultaneously grand in scope and as hopelessly limited as they are. He does not call Ivy. 

Some of Chris’s informants at the bar flirt with him when he is downstairs, writing in his journal while surreptitiously observing them at work with the bar’s patrons. They run their soft hands, with their manicured fingernails, over Roy’s shoulders, or down his arms. They stroke their fingers along the back of his neck as they lean in close, their lips nearly touching his cheek. Loose locks of their hair fall over their shoulders, brushing his arm. Roy breathes in the scent of their perfume. They offer to cheer him up, and help him get his mind off things. 

When Ivy touched him like that, before, it set his nerves on edge in the best possible way. Roy feels an utter absence of response, now. A complete, dead blankness where any sexual interest should be. 

He tells the ladies that they are lovely, and he’s flattered by the offer, but he has other plans for the night.

-

Roy moves to East City and focuses on finding allies. He and Hughes and Riza will not be enough to dismantle the system. He is a Lieutenant Colonel with excellent potential for advancement, true, but Hughes is just a Captain. Riza is a mere cadet, with half a year until she graduates. 

Chris suggested that Lieutenant General Grumman, an old friend of hers, would sympathize with his cause. Roy establishes a friendly relationship with Grumman, who takes him under his wing. Over two months of careful, deliberate work at building connections, he comes to know his fellow soldiers at East City Command well. He develops an understanding of the Colonels and his fellow Lieutenant Colonels, all the way down to the lowest-ranking corporals. Roy hand-picks the best of the best to serve on his unit. Jean Havoc, Heymans Breda, and Vato Falman. 

It is a relief to have them. To know that he is not alone in his efforts in East City, while Hughes is in Central, and Riza could end up stationed anywhere in the country.

-

Four months after returning from Ishval, Roy smiles his first genuine smile. 

He is horrified at himself. Sickened. Frightened, even. (What does it say about him, that he could smile, after what he had done? Does it show weakness, or the coldness that others have accused him of? Does it demonstrate a lack of resolve?) He has no right to smile, to feel joy and levity. 

Roy returns to his office, locks himself in, and calls Hughes. He struggles through his explanation, almost unable to put words to the depth of his guilt. He’s nearly incoherent with it.

Hughes is silent for so long that Roy thinks their call might have dropped. “You’re walking a long road, Roy,” he says, finally. “If you continue to punish yourself every step of the way, and you don’t take moments of joy when you can, you’re likely to put a bullet through your head before you reach the end of your journey. Hell, before you reach the end of the year.”

“Okay.” Roy’s voice comes out so small that he can barely hear himself. “Okay.”

-

Hughes comes to visit him in East City. Roy takes him out to dinner at the 112 Eatery, one of the finest spots in the city. Hughes tells him that Gracia has a few friends from secondary school and college that live out in East City. “They’re really nice,” he says. “They’re all teachers, like her. Maybe you should try going on a date. A  _ real  _ date. Gracia said it’s okay if I give you their phone numbers.”

Roy shrugs, and declines the offer. “I’m too busy to date.” His dates with Chris’s informants - now his informants, too - take up quite a bit of time as it is.

“It’s a couple of hours once a week, Roy.” Hughes saws off a bite of his steak and points his fork at him. “You spend more time than that at the gym.” 

Roy smirks, unable to pass up the opportunity for a snide remark. “Yeah, well, you could spend more time at the gym.”

“Shut up,” Hughes replies, without heat to the words. “I benched one-eighty earlier this week.” 

Roy sits up a little straighter, running a hand through his hair. “I benched one-ninety.” He’ll never admit it to Havoc, but training with the Second Lieutenant is a great motivator. He sleeps better after working out, too. 

“I hate you,” Hughes mumbles. They eat in silence for a little while, before Hughes looks up at him. “It’ll help, you know. Having a girlfriend. You’ll have someone to care about, and someone who’ll care about you. It’ll give you something to feel, besides…”

He trails off. 

“I’m sure it will,” Roy says tonelessly. 

Hughes’ words disturb him, a little, for more reasons than one. Even before Ishval, Roy never dreamed of marriage and children. He liked being with Ivy, for companionship and physical intimacy, but it didn’t go further than that. Resigning himself to the fact that he won’t have another relationship with a woman has been a slightly bitter pill to swallow. Relationships, when successful, end in marriage. He never saw that as something to strive toward, but he may have accepted it, eventually. 

Things are different now. It isn’t even an option. He doesn’t have the right to care for someone like that; to give and receive love. He can’t hold a woman with his bloodstained hands. Some innocent woman, like Ivy, who has never killed a person, let alone hundreds. Thousands. He doesn’t deserve that happiness and comfort. 

Roy revisits the conversation later, after he has dropped Hughes off at his hotel and returned to his apartment, alone. 

_ It’ll give you something to feel, besides… _

Shame, self-consciousness, makes his neck damp with sweat. Roy loosens his tie, before tugging it off entirely, undoing the top buttons of his shirt. It’s the same discomfort he experienced at his recent physical, as his physician proceeded through his list of questions. Roy had perched on the edge of the hard, cold metal table, arms crossed over his chest. Vulnerable, exposed, in the paper gown. He obfuscated the truth, just a little, when the physician asked him how many drinks he had per week. 

The next question caught Roy off guard.  _ Are you sexually active? _

_ No.  _ This time, the truth simply slipped out. 

The physician continued down his list of questions, asking if he was on any prescription medication. Roy felt ill at ease for the rest of the appointment.

It has been months since he returned from Ishval. The absence of feeling, the absence of sexual desire, that he experienced initially hasn’t diminished. He notices pretty women, but the notice is fleeting. Shallow. It’s what he feels when he sees a nice painting. He appreciates the painting in the moment, briefly, casually. He doesn’t think about it, afterward. He doesn’t  _ want _ it.

Some of Roy’s informants still flirt. They take his hand while they’re out to dinner, or the theatre or opera. They trace their fingertips against the inside of his wrist, down his fingers, his palms. They press close against him when they walk. They make it clear that they would be willing to give him more than just information, if he wanted. 

They are all lovely and alluring, because it is their job to be lovely and alluring. But he doesn’t want that. It would be unsavory to sleep with women who work for him. It doesn’t appeal to him for other reasons, as well.

(He tests himself, every few nights or so, by recollecting his memories with Ivy, or thinking of women he has seen in passing. It does next to nothing for him.)

Roy contemplates asking his physician about it, but dismisses the thought as humiliating. It isn’t normal for an otherwise healthy young man to have the type of problem he’s having. It is so private, so uncomfortable, that he doesn’t even feel up to discussing it with Hughes.

Roy goes into the kitchen and pours himself a glass of wine, just to help take the edge off before trying to sleep.

-

Two days later, Roy receives a memo from the personnel department informing him that Cadet Riza Hawkeye, soon to be Second Lieutenant Hawkeye, is being assigned to East City Command. Second Lieutenant Hawkeye has requested to serve in his unit. 

Roy stares at the memo for a little while. He remembers the twelve-year-old girl he met, years ago. The sixteen-year-old who wanted to study veterinary medicine. (He told her to consider the State Military Academy, instead. Another bitter regret to add to the list.)

He remembers Riza in Ishval, two years later. Kneeling in the sand, digging a grave for a child, tears streaking her sunburned cheeks. He remembers her sitting across from him in the mess hall, hands curled around her glass of cold water, listening with rapt attention to his plan. 

Roy picks up his pen to write a response.

-

As his Second Lieutenant and assistant, Riza devotes herself to watching over him and helping his unit run smoothly. She is hardworking and reliable, coming in early and staying late, even when Roy tells her she doesn’t have to stay as late as he does.

“It’s not safe for you to be alone here at all hours, sir,” Riza replies. “I’m supposed to watch your back.”

“Very well, then, Hawkeye.”

Roy keeps the break room adjacent to their office well stocked with the tea he remembers that Riza liked, when she was young (peppermint). He buys her dinner when they have to work late, and drives her home at night so that she won’t have to walk home alone in the dark. (Even though she says, truthfully, that she is more than capable of taking care of herself.) 

All of this is the least he can do. During the two years he lived in Hawkeye Manor, he benefited from Riza’s care and attention. He finally has the chance to reciprocate, in a small way. 

It is nice, and surprisingly comforting, to have Riza at his back or by his side all day and all evening. His faithful shadow. Riza is always willing to listen, and to give him her opinions, when he asks for them. 

And Roy asks, more and more, as each day goes by. Aside from being an astonishingly efficient assistant, he finds that Riza is almost as clever and analytical as Hughes. An excellent ally to have on his side. She brings a certain gentleness and quiet consideration to the unit, too. She does more than she has to, and everything she can to make his duties easier.

Roy finds himself satisfied when one of his wry remarks or jokes earns a small smile from Riza, and he appreciates how seamlessly she fits into the unit. He remembers her as a shy child, but perhaps her time in the Academy and serving alongside her sniper team benefited her. She seems more confident. Breda, Havoc, and Falman are curious about her, and welcoming, as Roy expected they would be. Riza responds well to their overtures of friendship. She converses with Falman about some radio show that they’re both interested in, passes sections of the newspaper back and forth with Breda, and talks guns with Havoc.

Roy likes seeing Riza like this, comfortable and somewhat at peace - as much as she can be. He has always been proud of his unit’s cohesion, and the bonds they have formed with one another. It is especially satisfying to see Riza, of all people, move around the office with ease and comfort. She regards the space, and the unit, with more subtle warmth and contentment than he ever saw her display in Hawkeye Manor, her own home.

Their unit goes out on most Friday nights, and Roy listens to Riza trade stories about her academy days with Havoc, Breda, and Falman. He enjoys watching Riza and Havoc shoot at the East City Command range, and he’s impressed by how well she does during their unit’s combat drills. The unit gets to talking about strength, during one of their drills. “I can only bench press one hundred and thirty pounds,” Falman confesses, rather glumly.

Havoc clutches his chest in mock horror. “We need to get your stats up. I bet Hawkeye can bench more than that.” He eyes her curiously. “Wait, can you, Hawkeye?”

Riza looks at him. “Will you allow me to demonstrate, Lieutenant Colonel?”

Roy isn’t sure why she’s asking for his permission. “Knock yourself out, Hawkeye.”

“I’ll need you to get down on the mats, sir.”

Breda claps Havoc on the back so hard he winces. “Oh, I really wish I bought my camera today.”

Roy lies down on the mats, baffled by this turn of events. His Second Lieutenant effortlessly heaves him up over her shoulders in a fireman’s carry. The unit gapes. 

“Lieutenant Colonel Mustang weighs one-hundred and fifty pounds,” Falman supplies helpfully. “I believe it is safe to theorize that Second Lieutenant Hawkeye can bench-press more than one-hundred and thirty pounds.” 

Havoc salutes Riza. “Can I just say that you’re a goddess, Hawkeye?”

“Nice,” Breda says appreciatively. “Do you ever think of competing? I bet you can lift more than most women.” 

“This is a little embarrassing,” Roy points out. “Also, Falman, how did you know how much I weigh?”

Riza lets him down, and smiles at him. Roy adjusts the collar of his shirt, slightly flustered.

-

Roy relays the story to Hughes over the phone later that night, when he is back at his apartment. Hughes laughs at him, and Roy smiles to himself. It’s valuable, having Hughes where he is as an ally in Central Command. With that being said, the only way his unit could be better would be if Hughes was here, too. 

“You know, Roy, I have to ask,” Hughes starts, when his mirth subsides. “Do you have a little crush?”

Roy almost drops the phone. “What? On who?”

“On Hawkeye, you idiot. You talk about her all the time, and you make it sound like she hung the moon in the sky.”

“Don’t be stupid.” Hughes can’t see him, but Roy shakes his head vehemently. “It isn’t like that. She’s my subordinate.” 

They say their goodbyes and hang up. Roy shudders as he puts the phone back on the hook. It’s too strange to even contemplate. Riza is nineteen, and he knew her when she was a girl of twelve, and she is his subordinate. It would be inappropriate if he did have an interest in her. 

(The way things currently stand, it is fast approaching a year since he returned from Ishval, and he still isn’t capable of having that kind of interest in anyone.) 

-

The next day in the office, Breda shows Riza a letter he has drafted to the editor of the East City Times. Riza laughs her sweet laugh in response. “No wonder he hates you, Breda.” 

Roy catches himself staring before he flees into his office and slams the door behind him. He’s pretty sure that Falman is the only one who notices.

-

It is a comfort that his feelings for Riza, his admiration of her, lacks a sexual element. It makes his desires feel less sordid. Roy just wants to hang onto her every word, and sit close to her, and gaze into her eyes. He wants to brush her bangs out of her face, and run his fingers through her cute, cropped hair, and wrap his arm around her when they sit beside one another at their unit’s favorite bar. That makes Roy feel less guilty. Less like a creep who wants to prey on his subordinate. 

He tries to shake his interest in Riza, nevertheless. It may not be sexual. It is still inappropriate, for so many, many reasons. 

-

Roy realizes that he is too far gone at the worst possible time. They are in Riza’s bedroom, in her apartment. She is topless, face down in bed, and he is holding her in place with his left hand, his right hand poised to snap. 

His stomach roils, his back is clammy with cold sweat, and a terrible sense of revulsion washes over him.  _ I can’t do this,  _ Roy thinks. _ I want this to be where you feel safe. I can’t make you hurt.  _

But he has to. It is what he owes to the murdered Ishvalans, and to Riza. To Master Hawkeye, even. He and Riza have to ensure that nobody else will ever obtain the deadly secrets of Flame Alchemy and use them to commit the same sins he committed. 

Roy closes his eyes for a moment. He steels himself. He snaps his fingers.

It is leagues worse than he expected. Worse than the nightmares that have plagued him all week, since Riza reminded him of the promise he made to her in Ishval. The flames eat at her skin, consuming the first two layers, destroying the dermis and epidermis, leaving just the hypodermis intact. Riza cries out, the sound terrified and ragged. She tries to curl up into herself like an injured animal; tries to push him off her.

Roy has to hold her down, hold her still. “Just once more, Riza.” His eyes burn with tears. His throat closes over. “I’m almost done. Just once more.”

-

The shock is too much for her system, and she loses consciousness. Part of Roy is lost to panic at seeing Riza motionless and limp, unresponsive. He’s nearly sick, blind with terror at the thought that he has killed her.

He compartmentalizes, as best as he can. As a Lieutenant Colonel should. Roy acts with rapid, military efficiency, examining Riza for signs of shock. She exhibits none of the clinical signs he studied. He moves quickly into tending her burns, cleaning and bandaging them. 

The minutes pass, dragging into half an hour. Over time, Riza’s breathing regulates into a steady rate. When Roy checks her pulse again, with his fingertips pressed to the side of her neck, it is stable and strong. 

The relief that sweeps over him is all-consuming, overwhelming. It goes deeper, so much deeper, than relief that he hasn’t irrevocably harmed his subordinate, who he is sworn to protect and look out for. 

Roy hugs her, before he can think better of it. He wraps his arms around Riza awkwardly, as best as he can with her facedown on the bed, the blankets pulled up to the nape of her neck, covering her body entirely. His cheek presses against her hair.  _ I’ll never hurt you again,  _ Roy thinks. His next thought comes with his next breath.  _ I love you. _

It is so flatly, unshakably certain, that he can’t deny it. He can’t talk himself out of it. He can’t force it away or bury it. It is what it is. He is in love with Riza. That is an immutable reality, just as the total energy of the universe can neither be created or destroyed. All he can do now is accept it, and move forward.

-

Over the subsequent months, and the next year, Roy learns what it is like to be in love. 

It is a sickness. A fever. It consumes him, digging under his skin, getting into his very veins. It is a sharp, visceral hunger, a near-constant craving. It is greed and covetousness. It is desperate, helpless adoration, underneath it all. 

And it is hell to keep it a secret from Riza, especially when he knows she would welcome his attention and affection. 

Roy swears Hughes to secrecy and tells him the truth. They are in his apartment, because this is such a sensitive matter that it can’t be discussed over the phone or out at a bar. Roy limited himself to one drink tonight, because Hughes is here. His confession is still longer and more rambling than he would like; more a rant than anything else.  _ I am in love with my Lieutenant, and it is one of the worst feelings of my life, and one of the best, and I feel like I am going insane. _

Hughes reveals no surprise at the news. “Okay, so you’re finally admitting it.” He takes a large bite of his cheese-covered fries. “Now tell me something I don’t know.”

“This…” Roy presses his fingertips to his aching temples. He barks out a bitter laugh. “This isn’t pleasant. Now I get why you’ve always been so obsessed with Gracia.” 

“It’s a rite of passage. We all go through it when we fall in love.” Hughes claps him on the back. “It just happens that you’re experiencing it for the first time later than most.” 

“Fuck,” Roy mutters. (The old anger, from last year, rises in him. He can’t be in love. He doesn’t get to be in love. There is no time for it. It is a distraction.) “Tell me it gets easier. It’s been close to a year, and it hasn’t gotten easier.”

“Normally it does, when you can actually be with your lady and vent all of your…” Hughes gestures a little awkwardly. “Affections. And have them reciprocated, hopefully.” 

Roy buries his head in his arms.

“Transfer Hawkeye to my unit, or Major Armstrong’s,” Hughes suggests. “It’s not a long train trip from Central to East City. She’ll be out of your chain of command, and the two of you can do whatever you want.”

( _ Whatever you want.  _ The farthest Roy has allowed himself to venture in his fantasies about Riza is kissing her. He imagines holding her tight in his arms, cupping the back of her head in his hand, tangling his fingers in the soft strands to tilt her head back for him. 

These aren’t fantasies, in the conventional sense. Roy holds a pillow close, late at night, and buries his face in it, his blood pounding in his veins. He is restless and hot and uneasy, but not aroused, not properly, truly aroused. He isn’t sure whether it is the trauma from Ishval that is still holding him back, keeping his body from responding the way it should. Or whether it is because Riza is his subordinate, and Riza is vulnerable, in a way, and his mind, his principles, his ethics, stop short of allowing him to think of her in an explicitly sexual sense.) 

“You could even marry her, without being in violation of the anti-fraternization laws,” Hughes presses. “And just live separately, with her in Central and you out here, until you become Fuhrer.”

Roy doesn’t entertain the idea. “No. Hawkeye needs to be by my side to help me accomplish our goals.” 

Hughes raises an eyebrow at him. “I’m not at East City Command with you, and I’m still helping your cause. Hawkeye can do the same.”

“No.” Roy rubs the back of his neck. “It’s different.” 

“It’s different because you want her,” Hughes counters. He crosses his arms over his chest, and gives Roy a long look. “Be careful, Roy. You’re not thinking with your head. I know you and Hawkeye are in good with Grumman, but there are plenty of Generals above him, and none of them like you. There are already rumors floating around Central Command about you and Hawkeye.”

Roy considers arguing. He  _ is  _ thinking with his head. Lust and desire aren’t influencing his decision-making here. It is a strategic necessity that his unit stay together, and Riza is a critical part of the unit. (She is the queen. His queen.) But he knows that Hughes’ intentions are good, and he relents. “Fine. I’ll be careful.” 

-

It is an eventful year. Roy’s unit expands, with the addition of Master Sergeant Kain Fuery and the Fullmetal Alchemist, Edward Elric. Fullmetal proves inseparable from his brother Alphonse, so Alphonse effectively becomes a member of the unit as well, despite his civilian status.

Late in autumn, Roy travels with Riza to Xing to meet with a member of Grumman’s network, on Grumman’s behalf. It is a momentous occasion, being entrusted to represent Grumman at an event abroad, even though it isn’t a formal state dinner. 

It is significant for another reason as well. Science has always been his chief obsession, but Roy has had a longstanding interest in history, politics, culture, and international relations, as well. Amestris had been the focus of his studies, of course, but as he grew older, he became more fascinated with Xing. It is his mother’s country of origin. It is where his maternal family calls home - if they are still alive. Roy has talked to Riza about his interest in visiting Xing, but it isn’t easy to travel between the two countries. “When you become Fuhrer, sir,” she assured him. 

Now he gets to visit Xing, years before he planned. And he will be able to make the trip without the trappings of a diplomatic entourage. It will just be him and Riza, alone in a foreign country.

Roy twirls his pen through his fingers and considers the possibilities, before he can stop himself. He catches himself mid-twirl and drops the pen.  _ No,  _ he chides himself, watching his Lieutenant leave.  _ She’s your subordinate. No.  _

-

They have a beautiful day in Xing, and a successful dinner with Grumman’s associate, General Huang. They go for a late-night walk along the Xiang River, returning from General Huang’s manor to their hotel. 

Roy stops, looking down at the river. Someone had released two dozen floating lanterns somewhere farther upstream. They drift down the dark water, squares of dark golden light. It is a serene sight that fills him with a completely unusual sense of peace. He wants Riza to see it and feel at peace, too. “That’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

Riza comes to stand beside him, joining him at the railing. She stands close enough that Roy can feel the warmth of her arm next to his. The side of her left hand and his right barely brush. He is exquisitely, torturously aware of her proximity. 

“I agree,” she says. She doesn’t address him by rank, as she normally does. “On both counts.”

It is easy to forget, here, that he is Riza’s commanding officer. Roy shifts, moving a half step closer still, gazing at the slow progression of the lanterns down the river. 

It would be so easy. He could take a step closer, and cradle the side of Riza’s head in his hand, prompting her to look up at him. He could call her  _ Riza,  _ and not  _ Lieutenant.  _ He could lean in and kiss her, soft and sweet and gentle enough to make her feel comfortable and safe. 

He could take her to his room, if she wanted, and kiss her some more. And Roy suspects that if Riza was the one to undo his belt, pulling it off with those deft, sure hands of hers, that he would find himself able to do more than kiss her.

The temptation is excruciating. 

He might be able to do more. But he shouldn’t. 

Roy takes a deep breath. He watches as the lanterns drift out of sight. He sighs, drawing his coat closer around himself (ignoring how he wants to pull Riza close, just for the innocent pleasure of feeling her in his arms.) “Come, Hawkeye,” he says. “It’s late. We should get back.”

-

Winter comes, and an excellent opportunity falls into the unit’s lap. “We’ll be able to apprehend Adriel Easton and Tristan Lucas within the month,” Roy explains to his subordinates. “It’ll end the year on a high note for us. Our unit will look  _ very  _ good in the eyes of East City Command and Central Command senior staff.”

Falman frowns. “The MP has been unable to pin anything on Easton and Lucas all year.”

“Same with Jurich’s and Koen’s units,” Breda chimes in. “What makes you think we’ll be the ones to bring them in?”

“I went out to dinner with Vanessa last night. I learned from her that a few of Easton’s associates, slightly lower down in the food chain, have started holding meetings with their extended network at the bar.” Roy taps his pen on his journal, where he encoded the notes from his date with Vanessa. “Over the past couple of months, Chris and the ladies have done everything they can to impress these men and make the bar feel like a safe space. The associates were overheard saying that Easton and Lucas were going to come in themselves next Thursday night, for a meeting.” 

“Great,” Havoc says. “So, are we sending Fuery to Central to bug the place?” 

“The bar is busy on Thursday nights.” Riza pauses in her note-taking. “It’s one of the peak nights, along with Friday and Saturday nights. There are going to be dozens of men there, and probably a little more than a dozen of Chris’s informants, too.” 

“It’ll be tricky,” Fuery muses. “There’s going to be so much cross-talk and noise pollution that I’m not sure I’ll be able to get good audio.” 

“And I don’t want to risk the bugs being spotted. By our targets, or whoever they’re meeting with,  _ or  _ any of the other patrons of the bar. It would kill business.” Roy drums his fingers against his desk. 

“The champagne room could work,” Fuery suggests, the tips of his ears going red. “If I bugged one of those, and Madame Christmas or one of the ladies suggested that Easton and Lucas take their meeting in one of those rooms.”

“They haven’t been meeting in the private rooms, though. Not yet.” Roy sighs. “I have something else in mind.”

The unit stares at him. “Are you going to tell us what it is?” Havoc prompts.

Roy clears his throat. “Lieutenant Hawkeye, how do you feel about waitressing?”

Riza’s pen stills on the page. 

-

The two of them make the drive to Central on Thursday afternoon. Roy brings his journal, two pairs of ignition gloves, and his gun, just in case. Riza brings her service weapon, two backup guns, and two knives. She carries a garment bag over her shoulder, and a leather satchel purse.

“I’m sorry for asking you to do this,” Roy says, during the drive. 

Riza’s reply is as even and unruffled as always. “I don’t mind. We’ve gone undercover before.”

“I know. But this is - unconventional.” Roy hesitates. “I know that any of the ladies could have surveilled the conversation for me, but it would be a day, at least, before any of them could get from Central to East City to make their report. This information shouldn’t be discussed on the phone.” 

“I’m happy to help, Colonel.”

Roy remembers - just a flicker - of Riza as he knew her, once, as a young girl in Hawkeye Manor. Always so dutiful; so hardworking and eager to please. “I know, Lieutenant,” he says softly.

-

They get to the bar a little before doors open for the night, allowing them to meet with Chris. She lets them know that Easton, Lucas, and their associates should be around by nineteen-hundred hours. Riza disappears upstairs to change, and Roy settles himself into his longtime favorite booth of the back of the bar with his journal. He is struck with a strange sense of nostalgia when he pulls his journal out from the inner pocket of his coat. He used to sit in this booth and work on his school assignments, until the bar opened for the night and Chris sent him upstairs to his room. The years had slipped by, somehow. He is twenty-seven, now, and he often feels a decade older.

The bar opens for the night, and Roy discreetly takes notes of all the patrons who enter. His spot is nice and tucked away, allowing him to escape easy notice. It is also set at just the right angle to give him a good view of the front entrance and the discreet back entrance to the private rooms. He recognizes a few Colonels from Central Command as they come in, which is promising. Roy writes a reminder in the margins to instruct his informants to pay special attention to them. He wants these officers to keep coming back, and for them to start bringing their friends.

Chris sets a glass down on the table in front of him. “One non-alcoholic chardonnay,” she says, lowering her voice. “I thought this would be best, since you’re on duty.”

“Thanks.” Roy takes a sip of his drink, and wishes it were liquor instead. “It looks like it’s going to be a busy night.”

“Business is always good at this time of year. These long, cold, dark nights leave our patrons wanting some company.” Chris looks out over the quickly-filling bar. “I have half a mind to give Elizabeth a job offer. I can tell she’s going to make us a lot of money tonight.”

Roy follows the direction of her gaze. His mouth goes dry when he catches sight of his Lieutenant leading a group of businessmen in expensive suits to a table. She passes within a few feet of him, and doesn’t look twice at him. 

Riza is wearing the shortest, tightest dress he has ever seen. (And he grew up in a hostess bar.  _ This  _ hostess bar, which has a certain reputation in the city.) The dress is golden and glimmering and skintight to the point it looks painted on. It is sleeveless, leaving her toned arms bare. It’s so short he is surprised Riza can even walk in it, especially in the sky-high, strappy stiletto heels she’s wearing. Her hair is loose over her shoulders, and she’s wearing makeup, which she almost never does. Her lips are red, not their usual shade of soft, natural pink. Her dark eyelashes have been thickened with mascara, and black eyeliner lines her upper eyelids. 

Roy tears his gaze away from her. The group of businessmen Riza is with makes no such effort. “Sorry if it’s bad news for your profits, but I need Elizabeth to stick with me.”

Chris laughs. “I bet you do.”

She moves off through the crowd, leaving Roy trying not to stare at Riza while she works. Still, his attention keeps drifting back to his Lieutenant, like a magnetic pull, as she makes her way from table to table, and to the bar and back, serving drinks. Eventually, he gives up, and lets himself look.  _ I’m at a hostess bar,  _ Roy rationalizes, as he takes another sip of his drink.  _ Men - and women - come here specifically to enjoy looking at beautiful women. It would be suspicious if I wasn’t giving anyone my attention.  _

He has never seen any woman look as good in a short dress as Riza does. His Lieutenant is tall for a woman, at five foot six, and the heels just make her taller. Her legs are toned from her military training, from running and weightlifting. He had always assumed that would be the case (before telling himself to stop thinking about his subordinate’s legs.) 

Roy has seen Riza in skirts before, on the unit’s nights out. Eyelet lace skirts that float to her knees, or basic long skirts with a slit up the side for easy access to the gun strapped at her thigh. On formal occasions, Riza wears the knee-length pencil skirt of the military dress uniform. But he has never seen her reveal this much leg before. He’s never seen her wear something so short that she can’t wear her thigh holster along with it.

Roy tugs at the collar of his dress shirt, wondering if he tied his tie a little too tight tonight. This is an inconvenient time to remember his old debate with Havoc at the gym. ( _ Breasts,  _ Havoc asserted, as he re-racked his weights.  _ I don’t trust anyone who says otherwise. _

_ Legs,  _ Roy countered, thinking of Riza in the military pencil skirt, as he noted his new personal best weight for bicep curls in his notepad.  _ You can see them more easily, since so many women wear skirts or tight pants. It’s harder to get women to undress completely for you.  _ He paused. _ Although some men have a harder time with that than others do. _

_ Colonel, I really do hate you.) _

Roy abandons that train of thought when Easton, Lucas, and a small group of their associates slip into the bar. They brush the snowflakes from the shoulders of their dark coats, and shake the snow out of their hair. He watches as Riza approaches them. (Even her walk is more seductive tonight, far from her typical brisk stride.) She bats her eyelashes, giving the men a coy smile, and leads them to a booth not far away from his. Roy coughs, giving himself an excuse to turn away from the group as they pass.

Vanessa and Riza trade off serving that table, with Riza spending the most time with them. Roy keeps a subtle eye on the situation as he chats with the informants who come and talk with him, giving him more of the appearance of a normal patron. Vanessa joins him after some time, taking a seat next to him. “It’s going well,” she whispers, under the guise of resting her head against his shoulder affectionately. “They like Elizabeth. They’re not suspicious or anything, even though she hasn’t been here to serve the other three before.”

“Good,” Roy replies, in an undertone. “This operation is the priority for tonight, but there are a few Colonels from Central Command here too. Third table from the far right, in the front. Could you and the others do whatever you can to keep them coming back here in the future?”

Vanessa winks at him. “No problem. What kind of guys are they? Do you know them?”

“Not well, but I don’t think they’ll give you trouble. The one in the middle is a Sands,” Roy adds. “Edgar and Lucy Sands’ second son. Heir to their East City estate. He should be generous.” 

Vanessa’s eyes widen. The Sands are one of Central’s wealthiest families. “Thanks for the tip!” She takes him by the lapel of his coat and pulls him in for a quick kiss on the cheek.

High heels click against the polished wooden floor, and to Roy’s surprise, Riza approaches, holding a bottle of wine. “I thought I would offer you a refill.” 

Her eyes are slightly narrowed, and Vanessa inches away from him. “I’ll go check on our table, Elizabeth.” She stands, straightens her own short dress, and returns to Easton and Lucas’s table. 

Roy adjusts the lapels of his coat, remorse pricking at him. He knows Riza isn’t completely at ease with his relationship with his informants. It’s plain enough to see that even the rest of the unit can pick up on it, though they’re tactful enough to keep their mouths shut. He hates that the smallest part of him likes that Riza gets jealous. It is validation and confirmation that she wants him; that she wants to be his one and only.

He certainly knows he feels the same way. It’s ridiculous, but Roy can practically feel his hackles rising, something dark and jealous and possessive rearing up inside him, when Riza even mentions any man outside of their unit in a favorable tone of voice. (She expressed an admiration of Major Miles’ efficiency as General Armstrong’s second-in-command, once. Roy brooded about it for the rest of the week.) 

He likes that he’s not the only one who suffers from such things. At the same time, Roy doesn’t want her to feel insecure. Riza has no rivals; no competition. No other woman has ever made him feel what she does. 

Riza tops off his glass, and Roy follows the graceful lines of her bare arms and sculpted shoulders as she pours the wine. “Thank you, Elizabeth,” he says. “Sit with me?”

Riza acquiesces, sitting so close that she is nearly on his lap. It is exactly what the other ladies at the bar do with their patrons, which is precisely why she did it, but the forwardness is a welcome surprise anyway. Roy breathes in the scent of Riza’s unbound hair, and the vanilla-rose perfume she only wears on special occasions. It is the height of impropriety, but he wraps an arm around her, pulling her flush against his chest. She feels just as sweet as he’s always imagined. “Let me take you back to the champagne room,” he suggests. He strokes his thumb against Riza’s back, and she arches her back a little. 

This is the coded message they agreed upon. The solicitation sends a sordid little shiver down Roy’s spine regardless. (He shouldn’t have touched her. He got carried away. The saving grace is they are so close, pressed into each other, turned toward each other, that they fit in with the other patrons and ladies at the bar. Nothing suspicious here.) 

“I have another group who wants me in one of the back rooms.” Riza rests a hand on his arm. “I wanted to come by and let you know. I can join you in an hour or so, if you can wait that long.”

“I could wait forever for you,” Roy replies, and it isn’t quite the easy, practiced flirtation he’s mastered over the years. 

Riza blushes slightly. He can’t tell if it’s because she picked up on the note of honesty, or if she’s just flustered by their proximity. “We’ll be in room fourteen.” 

“I’ll wait in room fifteen,” Roy murmurs. He doesn’t need to tell her to be careful, or that he will be looking out for her. 

Roy watches as she rises and returns to Easton and Lucas’s table. Riza, Vanessa, and Ava lead the group of men back to one of the private rooms. He waits a few minutes, and then catches Claire’s eye as she passes by.

She stops by his booth, takes his hand, and leads him to one of the back rooms. “They’re in one of the non-soundproofed rooms,” Claire whispers, although Roy has long since memorized which of the champagne rooms are soundproofed and which aren’t. Fourteen has walls thin enough that he will be able to hear any sign of disturbance and respond immediately, if things don’t go well. 

“Thanks.”

Claire gives him a flirtatious smile. “Want any company while you wait?”

“I’ll be fine,” Roy says. Claire heads back to the bar proper, shutting the door, leaving him alone in the dimly lit room. Soft music pipes in over the speakers; a sultry, slow Aerugan tune. Roy paces the room, imagining what information Riza is gathering from Easton and Lucas in the next room. He hopes that none of the men are being too predatory, to Riza or his other informants. Chris owns the bar, but the ladies report to both him and Chris, and their safety is both of their responsibility.

After several minutes, he finally settles down to wait, sinking onto the faux leather sofa. The hour drags by, and just as Roy is growing restless, contemplating getting up and pacing again, the door cracks open. Riza slips inside, locking it behind her in one smooth movement. She’s holding a bottle of champagne, to maintain the farce that she is attending to her next customer of the night. Her subtly satisfied expression tells him the operation had been a success.

“Why, Elizabeth,” Roy says, as she comes to join him, and the sight of Riza approaching him, looking like  _ that,  _ makes his throat grow tight. He wants her to sit on his lap and let him stroke her legs. Or better yet, straddle him and push his back against the sofa, her hands firm on his chest. “You’re a natural at this.” 

“I try my best, sir,” Riza replies. Something about her calling him  _ sir  _ while wearing something so very unprofessional makes Roy shift in his seat. She sits beside him, at more of a distance than she had earlier. The hem of her tiny dress rides up even more when she sits, leaving her long legs almost completely exposed. 

Roy takes a deep breath, quelling his distraction. “I want to be sure they’ve left before we leave. Tell me everything.”

Riza summarizes what she overheard, with her typical clarity and conciseness. “They’ll both be in East City to finalize the deal on Tuesday. We can act then.”

“Very good, Lieutenant.” 

(Again, Roy can’t tell if the praise makes Riza blush, or if it is just her cosmetics.)

Riza retrieves her leather satchel and clothing from where she tucked it away in a secret wall compartment in their private room. They wait until it’s safe, and they exit through one of the hidden back doors to the bar. Roy keeps a hand on the small of her back, and Riza tousles her hair, letting her bangs fall over her eyes. If anyone should spot them, they’ll see nothing more than the Flame Alchemist (who everyone knows is a serial womanizer) leaving with a beautiful cocktail waitress. 

Riza shivers in the chilly night air. Covering her up is the last thing he wants to do, but he doesn’t want her to be cold or uncomfortable. Roy removes his coat, draping it over her shoulders. “Here.”

“Thank you, Colonel.” Riza pulls it on and draws it close around her. It isn’t the first time he has lent her his coat, but the sight of her wearing it never gets old. It’s long even on him, and it falls well past her knees. 

There is enough snow on the ground that Riza’s pace slows to something more cautious, in her stiletto heels. Roy offers her his arm to keep her steady, and she takes it, murmuring her thanks. 

He drives them to their hotel. It is The Langham in downtown Central; five-stars and the city’s newest construction. Riza raises an eyebrow as they enter, surveying their opulent surroundings (and probably performing a threat assessment.) “This is quite extravagant, Colonel.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Roy pauses, admiring one of the large, magnificent paintings that hangs in the lobby. “I can write it off as a work-related expense.” 

“I wouldn’t normally approve,” Riza says, a little ruefully. “But Rebecca said that this place has whirlpool bathtubs, and my legs are killing me.”

The thought of Riza peeling off her dress and sinking into a hot bath distracts Roy enough that he trips on the edge of the plush Cretan-style rug in front of the check-in desk. His Lieutenant grabs his arm to steady him, preventing him from falling flat on his face. “Please be more careful, sir,” she chides. 

The man working the desk assumes they want a single room. Roy corrects the assumption, after a beat of reluctance that he fervently hopes went unnoticed. Riza requests a room on the ground floor for security reasons, even though the view from the top floor windows is supposed to be stunning. They make their way to their rooms, and Roy is forced to wait outside in the hallway as Riza performs a thorough security check of his room, as she always does. 

Roy paces back and forth in front of his room like a caged animal, wishing he had his coat, so he could shove his hands in his pockets. It is close to midnight and they have had a very long day, between work in the morning, the drive to Central, and their mission in the evening hours. He should be weary. He isn’t, at all. He is as wired as he is after his morning cup of coffee, brimming with a strange, restless energy. He doesn’t want to unwind. He doesn’t want to sleep. He wants to follow Riza into his hotel room, and shut the door behind them, and see what happens. 

Riza emerges from the room. “Clear,” she informs him. “I’ll be right next door if you need anything.”

“Right.” Roy has the terrible, dawning suspicion that there is one thing he needs, and it is something he absolutely cannot ask for. “Good night, Lieutenant.”

Riza shrugs off his coat, revealing her little golden dress and all that bare skin once again, and hands it back to him. “Good night, Colonel.”

Roy’s fingers fumble on the coat as he takes it, drawing it close. The scent of Riza’s perfume lingers on it. He makes it into his room, closes and locks the door, and leans heavily against it, fighting the temptation to bury his nose in his coat and breathe her in. He tosses it over the nearby writing desk, at a safe distance.

It doesn’t help. Roy paces in a tight circle around the room, running a hand through his hair, which is growing slightly damp with sweat. He undoes his tie and his belt, throwing it aside, and unbuttons the top buttons of his shirt somewhat clumsily. The blood pounds in his veins. Roy settles into the large bed, big enough for two, and he shouldn’t follow this to its natural conclusion. He should do what he has always done every time he has tried this - with limited success - over the past years. He should think of his memories with Ivy, or of women in general, with soft, warm skin, and graceful necks exposed by short, cropped hair, and long, toned legs.

Instead, Roy envisions Riza beside him in bed, lying on her back, her hair spread out underneath her. She is wearing her short dress, high heels still on. Riza looks up at him, the expression in her big, amber-brown eyes making it clear that she would like him to come closer. 

It is a very, very enticing image, but an even more compelling one comes to mind.

-

They leave the bar, and return to his car, parked in a dark alley a few streets away. Instead of offering Riza his arm to keep her steady in her high heels, Roy wraps an arm around her. Riza allows the contact, and when he traces his knuckles along the curve of her waist, down to her hips, she leans into him. 

They don’t get into the front of the car and drive to their hotel. There are a few things they need to attend to first. Roy unlocks the back door instead and slides in, and Riza follows him. She waits patiently while he locks the doors, but the second he’s finished, they fall into one another, pulling each other close, even closer than they had been in the bar. Riza pushes his coat off with an uncharacteristic lack of grace, leaving her clad in just the dress, and Roy manages an incoherent expression of approval as he pulls her into his lap. 

Riza gets into a more comfortable position, straddling him with one knee planted on either side of his legs. Roy wants to praise her in the way he thinks she would like. He wants to tell her that she is the most beautiful woman he has ever seen, and he wants her so much it could kill him. He wants to tell her that she has gotten under his skin, into his veins, like a fever, a sickness, and it’s eating him alive. 

But Riza kisses him so passionately he can’t speak; so eagerly that Roy melts at her attention and unbridled enthusiasm. She draws his bottom lip under her teeth, nipping at it. Her hands are firm on his face, tilting it up for her. Riza shifts impatiently, as if she can’t decide whether to keep holding him like that or run her hands down over his shoulders and chest. She compromises by pressing her body tight against his chest, satisfying her desire for touch while not letting go of his face. Roy grips the backs of Riza’s thighs, caressing her legs, coming just short of pushing the hem of her dress up over her hips. 

Roy pulls back, and Riza gives him one of her rare, completely unguarded looks, her frustration and disappointment clearly evident. “Take it off for me,” he orders, toying with the hemline of her dress. “All of it.” 

(Roy would never be so bold or forceful with her in reality, but here, in the privacy of his mind, he can do what he wants with Riza, within reason.) And in the privacy of his mind, Riza’s eyes are dilated with desire, her cheekbones flushed, as she searches for the zipper on the side of her dress. “Yes, sir.”

Riza removes the dress with some difficulty, not wanting to climb off his lap. Roy had wondered, while he watched her work, what she was wearing underneath such a tight dress. Her bra and underwear are tight and lacy, and a light pink that matches the blush of her skin. She’s beautiful like this, breathing hard, her chest heaving, and Roy is torn between the desire to admire her, to savor the view, or pull her close to him again and kiss her senseless.

Riza reaches back and unhooks her bra, discarding it to the floor of his car. She takes matters into her own hands, running her fingers through his hair and grabbing it (not too tightly - even in his fantasies, Riza is endlessly considerate of him) and pulling him into her, letting him bury his face in her breasts and nuzzle her. Roy muffles a moan against her skin, and allows his hands to come up and cup and gently squeeze her breasts while he kisses them. Riza is so soft and warm underneath his hands, and she likes what he’s doing to her. “Roy,” she whispers, her voice near breaking. “Oh, Roy, that feels so good. I love that.” 

She rocks her hips against his, before clumsily tugging at his belt to remove it. Roy allows it, letting her undo the button and zipper on his dress pants. Then he remembers, belatedly, how exposed Riza is. Anyone who looks in the window would be able to see her. Her hair is long and loose down her back, but it’s in disarray, and someone could easily catch a glimpse of her tattoo and her scars.

Roy leans down, awkwardly picking up his coat. He helps Riza into it, and he sees, in the look on her face, that she understands why. She leans in and kisses him sweetly on the nose. “Thank you.”

“Leave the front open,” Roy instructs, and Riza acquiesces, with a small smirk. She kisses him again, and he lets his hands wander, underneath the coat, stroking her and touching her and relishing every gasp and moan of pleasure. He would give anything to record her like this, driven near to the edge by his hands and mouth, and play the audio back whenever he is alone in his apartment, suffering through a sleepless night.

“I want you,” Riza manages to say, pulling away from their kiss. “Now.”

It is a command and a plea all at once, and it is more intoxicating than the finest liquor. Roy guides her off him, onto her back on the backseat, as Riza removes her underwear, kicking it aside. She has left her heels on, which is unexpectedly nice. She arches her back and squirms a little, alluring and impatient, and Roy stares at his Lieutenant, determined to commit this to memory. If they had more space, and more time, he would kiss her from her head all the way down to her toes.

Riza takes hold of his tie, losing her patience, and pulls him on top of her, wrapping her legs around him. It’s the best thing Roy has felt in his entire life, and he almost cries out at the intensity of how good she feels beneath him, around him. He holds Riza tight, his fingers digging into her hips, and kisses her even harder than he had earlier. He’s still desperate for her, hungry for her. He thought this would sate his craving for her, but it hasn’t, not yet. He could have her for hours upon hours, weeks, months, years, decades, the rest of his life, and it still won’t be enough to burn her out of his system. Riza is as much a part of him as his blood and bones.

She grinds her hips against him, arching her back again. Riza whispers his name, sounding close to tears as she begs him for more; begs him not to stop. 

“I won’t,” Roy assures her, stroking her hair clumsily, peppering kisses to her lips and cheeks. “I’ll always love you like this, sweetheart. Would you like that?”

Riza sobs out a  _ yes, Roy, please,  _ and it drives him over the edge.

-

Roy almost blacks out. He comes back to himself dazed, limp, lying on his back on the bed, clutching a pillow close. 

It’s an effort to stand up. He pulls himself to his feet, and his knees almost give out underneath him. Roy staggers to the bathroom, peels off his clothing, and flings himself into the bath. He runs the water, and sits in it, numb. 

He remembers sexual release as feeling good. This had transcended pleasure. This had wiped his mind clear as a slate for who knows how long, turned his bones and muscles into jelly, and had overall damn near killed him. 

Roy rests his forehead on the rim of the bathtub in abject despair as it sinks in. He just had a very explicit sexual fantasy about Riza. Riza, his Lieutenant, his subordinate. Who is supposed to be under his protection. Who he has known since she was a girl. 

“Fuck,” Roy says, with feeling. He throws the washcloth over his eyes, and considers drowning himself in the bath.

He sits in the bath for an hour, periodically re-heating the water with his alchemy. Roy finally stands and towels himself off, pulls on his pajamas, and crawls into bed. He is too dispirited to brush his teeth, or moisturize his face.

Hopefully tonight would have gotten it out of his system a bit. He shouldn’t make a habit out of fantasizing about Riza. 

(But oh, it had felt so very, very good, and so right. And it is infinitely safer than actually indulging in his desires for her.) 

Roy pulls the spare pillow to his chest, resting his face against it. He thinks of Riza, and hopes that her feet and legs feel better, after getting those shoes off and enjoying a hot bath. She is probably sound asleep in the room beside him, curled up under the covers and resting peacefully. 

As always, Riza is the last thought on his mind before he succumbs to sleep.

-

Roy sleeps unusually well that night.

-

Riza slips a note underneath his door in the morning, informing him that she is doing paperwork in the lounge area. She adds that they should leave Central by eight-hundred hours in order to return to the office and update the unit on the operation before Falman, Fuery, Breda, and Havoc leave for the weekend. Roy takes his time getting ready for the day nevertheless. It is irrational, but he is a little nervous at the prospect of seeing Riza again. He’s afraid that she’ll take one look at him and know exactly what he spent last night doing. 

Roy gathers his things and makes his way to the hotel’s lounge. It is near empty at this early hour. His Lieutenant sits at a table near the window, looking like herself again, bent over her paperwork. Riza’s face is scrubbed clean of makeup, and her hair is clipped up in its customary updo. She wears close-fitting dark corduroy slacks, knee-high boots, a gray sweater, and a cream-colored scarf. The morning sunlight streams in through the window, bathing her in light, setting her aglow. She is just as stunning as she was last night. 

Riza glances up from her paperwork, catches sight of him, and smiles. 

_ I love you,  _ Roy thinks, reflexively. And he remembers what he thought last night. That he could have Riza for hours upon hours, weeks, months, years, decades, the rest of his life, and it still wouldn’t be enough to burn her out of his system. She is engraved in his very soul. 

Roy returns Riza’s smile, and goes to sit by her side.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> I literally just wanted to write Roy and Riza having sex in his car and then this 15k monstrosity happened. Shout out to the anon on tumblr who requested a story where Roy and Riza go undercover, and Riza wears an outfit that drives Roy wild with desire - I think your prompt fit in well with this idea! 
> 
> Seriously, though, one of the many things that has fascinated me about writing "delicate", my Riza character study, is how trauma affected Riza's sexuality and how she expresses it. I think trauma and depression can definitely impact sex and intimacy, by either reducing sex drive and the desire for sex, or increasing it. Roy and Riza in "delicate" and this story sit at opposite ends of the spectrum from each other, where Riza seeks sex and attention to cope with her pain, and Roy loses his desire for it. That was interesting to explore. 
> 
> As I've written "delicate," I found that I enjoyed writing Roy to be intense and prone to strong feelings, whether those feelings are dedication to his goals, devotion to his subordinates, or anger, and sorrow. He feels things deeply. I enjoyed exploring that in this fic, with Roy's youthful obsession with science and alchemy, his dedication to reform, and the later intensity of his love (and lust) for Riza. 
> 
> It was also interesting to speculate about Roy's romantic past pre-Riza, since in "delicate" we know about Riza's past pre-Roy. 
> 
> Please excuse the many scientific/chemistry-related inaccuracies in the early part of this fic, when Roy was having conversations with his girlfriend Ivy. I know as much about chemistry as a box of rocks knows about chemistry. Possibly even less. I googled "do atoms make up elements" "are there elements in the atmosphere" and similar questions. 
> 
> The title was taken from the Lorde track "The Louvre." 
> 
> I really had a lot of fun writing this, and I hope you enjoyed reading. I would love to know what you think! Comments would be deeply appreciated.
> 
> I am also on tumblr @lantur if you would like to connect. :) I hope you have a great week!


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